


In the fiery pits of the cheap knock-off of Mount Doom

by cardinal__sin



Category: Gloryhammer (Band)
Genre: (both tags for knife of evil reasons), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate ending for the Terrorvortex, Angus McFife lives, Angus McFife-centric, Fix-It, Gen, Mild Gore, Near Death, POV Third Person, Zargothrax lives, a fic for another time, also the relationship tags are platonic hjfgkjfsd they're just Friends, canon is a sandbox and i'm a toddler making mudcakes, except for proletius but...ya know, imagine zargothrax and ralathor's messy break up tho, liberal use of canon, like. very gay friendships some of them but like not explicitly that for now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:55:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28258812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardinal__sin/pseuds/cardinal__sin
Summary: "It’s unfair. It’s so fucking unfair, that after a thousand years of carrying the legacy (figuratively, in his name, and literally, in his hammer) of Angus McFife the first, the legacy that was nothing more than a noble title and a Sisyphean fight against a sorcerer frozen in ice, the McFife bloodline is to end hours after the fulfilment of said legacy.Maybe he could say it’s poetic, if Angus knew a thing about poetry. He doesn’t. He just finds it to be a cosmic kick in the balls. Good job on defeating your multigenerational nemesis, now turn evil or die, the universe seems to tell him, and Angus is, frankly, so done with the universe. The universe straight up sucks."or: Angus McFife may be an idiot but at least his heart is in the right place. don't hurt him for being stupid <3
Relationships: Angus McFife & Ralathor, Ralathor & Zargothrax
Comments: 14
Kudos: 13





	In the fiery pits of the cheap knock-off of Mount Doom

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever Gloryhammer fic, so true to form it has to be a fix-it of the ending of the Terrorvortex. Honestly, who came up with that bullshit? Anyway, have fun reading! :)

To put it simply: Angus McFife is losing. He’s not too surprised by this turn of events, given that Zargothrax is a millennium-old evil sorcerer with a lot of magic and even more knives, and he’s just. Some guy with a stupid, comically oversized hammer supercharged with the might of God or cosmic radiation or whatever.

It’s not a fair fight. That’s the point. It never has been – from the mere existence of the portal (sorry, _terrorvortex_ ) to the demise of the once-good Ser Proletius, it was never once a fair fight. And now it ends with a fucking magic hammer and an evil popsicle with a name that should be a prescription medicine.

Zargothrax strikes, a flurry of green light sending a good half dozen of throwing knives dead towards Angus. He swipes against them with the hammer, cursing his thousand-year-family-legacy for being a gigantic whack-a-mole prop, but even with all its impracticality, he manages to change most of the knives’ trajectory so they zoom past his ear with no consequences to his health.

Emphasis on _most_. There’s a weird, squishy sound and then an even weirder pain shooting from his side, and when Angus looks down, he sees the handle of a dagger poking out from between his armour plates. _The rabid fucker long-distance stabbed him_. What the fuck.

He doesn’t have time to deal with it right now. Besides, the amount of adrenaline in him is making him almost completely immune to physical pain, so he feels no hesitation before lifting his hammer and bodily throwing himself at Zargothrax.

It’s not long until he loses his footing once again, the slowly seeping blood from his wound draining his energy as well. Even in peak physical condition, he doubts he would be a match for the geriatric ice pack, but now that he’s actually, actively dying… it’s hopeless.

Zargothrax seems to realize as much, because he gets lazy with his taunts and his attacks become less aggressive. The tendrils of his magic curl gracefully as he fends off Angus’ every attack, and it’s like a dance, like a deliberate show-off of his powers. _He’s toying with me,_ Angus realizes privately, maybe panicking about it. Because they’re doing fucking Tom and Jerry and this seems to be the one episode where Jerry doesn’t escape the frying pan or mouse trap or whatever at the very last second. No, Angus “Jerry” McFife the thirteenth is going to die today.

He strikes with the hammer – misses, it’s always been too slow of a weapon, overbalances and then it’s only a small push from the coiling wisps of magic before he’s lying on the ground, Zargothrax smiling down at him, his eyes glowing with that same cold green underneath the hood of his cape. He seems to know what Angus is realizing as well: this is it.

The phrase _deus ex machina_ has always fascinated Angus. From the day that he was a kid seeing it for the first time in a book and trying to figure out why there was a god in the machine – what machine, he never knew – to the day of currently when he’s dying in a very lame yet still kind of heroic way, he’s found the concept of divine intervention quite fascinating. And that is why, when the skies open up, he thinks _wow, that’s convenient_ , instead of _okay, what the fuck is happening_.

The figure that descends from the heavens is awfully familiar. The long, dirty blond hair, the beard, even the fucking clothes, it all comes together into a person that Angus never thought to see again. A person who died saving them and humanity and should not be here. It’s the fucking Hootsman. The glorious bastard.

He looks different, though, somehow. Like he’s glowing. He has an aura of power surrounding him, and Angus thinks _maybe his soul is descending from heaven to help us_ before realizing that the Hootsman, just like the rest of their rag-tag little gang will one day, probably went to hell after his death.

Zargothrax is monologuing. He stands above Angus and delivers an entire speech about becoming god, or whatever. Angus is more focused on the knife in his side because it fucking _hurts_ , and that’s more of a priority than anything Zargothrax has to say. He’s lying on his back, hammer still in hand although he doesn’t even dream about using it, just accepting his death at this point. Zargothrax has him pinned with some sort of magic, and since Angus is not a fucking sorcerer he has no means to break it.

“You’re no god, and you never will be!” booms a voice, then, and Angus cracks open a lazy eye to see what the commotion is about. The Hootsman-faced angel is now standing face to face with Zargothrax, and Angus’ stomach tightens as he feels the electricity in the air, smells ozone like before lightning strikes. The Hootsman-oid emanates pure _power_ , and Angus feels Zargothrax’ hold on him weaken. Good.

What’s going on.

He asks as much, and immediately regrets it when both Zargothrax and the vengeful angel wearing his dead friend’s face both look at him. And then something _super fun_ happens.

“Hey, Angus,” the Hootsman says, “it’s good to see you again.”

He speaks with such familiarity, such warmth in his voice, that Angus is suddenly overcome by the need to hug his friend. If it even is his friend. Despite the power and the whole divine entrance, the Hootsman looks just like he did before sacrificing himself, and the way he regards Angus, like a friend he’d thought he’d lost for good…

“It’s you,” Angus realizes, breathless. “How? I saw you die –”

“The explosion sucked me into the void between time and space. I didn’t die.”

“What?”

The Hootsman sighs. “I’m technically God now.”

“You’re a god?” Angus asks back, incredulous.

“No, no,” the Hootsman corrects him, “the God. Capital G.”

“Cool,” Angus breathes, “that’s super cool.”

And he passes out.

* * *

He wakes up to Ralathor yelling.

Ralathor yells a lot – commands to the crew of the DSS Hootsforce, his lunch order into the shitty microphones of drive-through diners, reprimands at Angus from a feet away when he does something wrong. Well, wrong in the sense of Ralathor thinking it’s not the correct way to do things.

Ralathor thinks a lot of things aren’t done the correct way. He’s Angus’ age at best, or maybe a little older, and he has such strong opinions that only ninety-year old gramps have who left something behind in The War. He’s a crotchety old man most of the time, and Angus loves him dearly for it, but his head hurts and Ralathor is yelling and he’s very, very uncomfortable, so. Why.

In his quest of investigating the reason for the yelling, Angus opens his eyes. He’s staring up at red-tinted skies and breathing in smoke and dust, and his side fucking hurts along with his head. He sits up slowly, trying not to make the pain worse, and takes in his surroundings.

He almost manages to convince himself that he’s still passed out, having a fever dream. Or just plain hallucinating.

Zargothrax is kneeling on the ground, his hood fallen off his head, his hair loose in the wind. The Hootsman is standing above him, a hand on the sorcerer’s forehead. Green light pours out of Zargothrax’ mouth like liquid smoke, and there’s a golden light beneath his skin, like a fire just about ready to burn him from the inside out.

And Ralathor is running towards them, yelling for the Hootsman to _wait_.

The Hootsman looks at Ralathor in clear confusion, and it takes him a second to recognize the hermit in the current submarine commander. Yeah, that’s a very weird sentence to think. Thank god he didn’t have to say it out loud. What kind of world has hermits becoming commanders, even?

“Stop,” Ralathor pants as he skids to a halt next to the Hootsman, “don’t kill him.”

“Why?” exclaims Angus, and although the Hootsman doesn’t say anything, it’s evident that he thinks the same.

“Yeah, Ralathor,” Zargothrax asks in a hollow voice, his eyes still closed, “why?”

Angus looks up at Ralathor, searching his expression. The commander is so good at hiding his emotions, but his eyes have always been the key to all his secrets and Angus knows him – or his other him, from the timeline before the vortex – well enough to be able to read him. There’s a sadness in Ralathor’s brown eyes, an emotion that feels like it transcends time, that feels like it’s older than Ralathor himself.

“You were my friend, once,” Ralathor says, his voice low and so endlessly tired, “and I believe my friend is still in there. I won’t let you kill him.”

Angus’ mouth drops open, and at the same time, Zargothrax slowly opens his eyes to peer up at Ralathor.

“Didn’t know you were so sentimental,” he mutters, and there’s a grin hiding in the corner of his mouth. Like he’s not an intergalactic villain, just _some guy_ , some old friend Ralathor is playing catch-up with.

“There’s a lot you’ve forgotten, my dear,” Ralathor says, and Angus watches the electric blue of his magic curl around Zargothrax, shroud his body for a moment before clearing out again, leaving behind handcuffs and bindings that glow faintly from the magic they’re created of. The Hootsman lowers his hand.

“Are you sure that’s wise, Ralathor?” he asks, looking just as unsure about the whole ordeal as Angus feels.

“I know his magic, I know how to contain him,” Ralathor replies, and his voice is calm and measured. He’s hiding his emotions again, Angus can tell, but one thing is clear. Killing Zargothrax is not an option anymore. Not if Ralathor has a say in it.

Ralathor touches a finger to Zargothrax’ temple and the sorcerer crumples to the ground, unconscious.

Angus can practically _feel_ the history between the two of them. There’s nothing strange about the way Ralathor addressed Zargothrax – the commander has a way of calling everyone around him old-fashioned terms of endearment. Angus’ epithet seems to be _darling_ and while he was alive, Proletius used to be _dearest_. It’s how he talks, and it’s natural, coming from him, even if the subject of the term is a bit less than conventional.

No, what Angus feels as something almost tangible is the time that’s passed between Ralathor and Zargothrax, what feels like eons and eons worth of knowing each other. But that’s impossible. Ralathor is… He’s not _old_. He was a hermit, back in the other universe, and has been a hermit for a while, but he could have just started young. And the first Angus McFife told tales about a hermit named Ralathor, but Angus never saw a connection there. Ralathor could just as well be a common hermit name. Angus can’t know that. But the _way_ he seems to know Zargothrax – a man who’s been frozen in ice for a thousand years – just leaves Angus wanting to know more.

“You don’t have to ask,” Ralathor says without turning to Angus, like he’s read his mind. Knowing Ralathor, he probably did.

“Yes, I knew him before he was corrupted by pure evil. We were good friends. Maybe even the best.”

“I’m sorry,” Angus mutters, not really knowing what to say. He imagines watching your best friend turn evil, then thinks about Ser Proletius. He can’t – he can’t think about that right now, about having to look a friend in the eye and order his death for the greater good. Maybe Proletius could have been saved as well. He probably would have deserved it more than Zargothrax.

Trying to take his thoughts away from their darker turn, Angus focuses on the one big mystery in the equation. He looks up at Ralathor with a raised eyebrow.

“So you’re immortal?”

“No, I just moisturize,” Ralathor replies drily. It takes Angus a moment to see it for what it is, an honest to god joke, but then he starts laughing. He laughs freely and happily, letting it tip over into hysterics as he feels the adrenaline drain out and the post-rush shakes of anxiety settle in.

Ralathor regards him with a raised eyebrow. He loves to pretend he has no sense of humour but Angus knows him, and Ralathor is clearly smug about his joke having such an impact.

“Good one,” Angus manages finally, “but seriously. Are you?”

“Sort of,” Ralathor shrugs, “my magic is keeping me alive. Rob me of it, and I’ll start aging like any other human.”

“Huh,” Angus mutters to himself, “so like a magical taxidermy.”

“Please don’t say that ever again.”

Angus smiles and leans back on his hands. He feels content like that, for a minute, with his friends by his side and his nemesis defeated.

He also starts to feel the knife again. Shit.

“I should take him back to the sub before he wakes up,” Ralathor says, nudging Zargothrax’ unconscious body with his boot. “You guys coming?”

The Hootsman reaches a hand to Angus, and he takes it gratefully, lets himself be pulled up by his friend. If he has to lean on the hammer for support, he hides it well.

“You two go back,” he waves, “I want a moment alone to…savour the victory.”

The Hootsman nods in agreement, and claps Angus on the shoulder. He only barely manages to hold in his pained wince. It’s no question the Hootsman is joining them on the submarine, Angus thinks, he’s their friend too. Well. Technically not _this_ Ralathor’s friend, but then again Angus has no idea if the Ralathor and Proletius in his and the Hootsman’s original timeline are even alive. He supposes that with the vortex as good as closed for good, he’ll never know.

He’ll find out soon enough, anyway. With the others gone, Angus slowly, painstakingly strips off his armour, careful not to jostle the knife still buried in his side. Thankfully it embedded itself between two plates of the green breastplate, so he can undress without having to remove the knife.

It’s fucking weird. The knife itself is burning hot inside him, and yet his flesh feels icy cold. It’s like the knife is draining him of his body heat, his life force. Angus fucking hates himself for not having a shield and some badass ranged weapons like throwing knives or shurikens. Then he could have protected himself against Zargothrax’ attacks and could have avoided making a fool of himself jumping around with his magical space-fuelled hammer. His life is a fucking nightmare.

He tears his undershirt into shreds so he can pull it away from the wound as well, and lets out an audible gasp when he sees the skin around the wound. It’s blackened, necrotic, blistering sores growing around it, blood and pus oozing from the open wound. No blade could have such damage, except…

Angus takes a better look at the handle of the dagger. Of fucking course.

The Knife of Evil glints up at him in the light of the setting sun coyly, taunting him. Angus heaves a frustrated breath, running his hands through his hair, fisting his fingers into the overgrown locks.

“Fuck,” he hisses, and there are tears in his eyes from pain and from anger.

“Fuck!” he repeats, this time half-yelling it, his face turned up to the heavens like there’s anyone to hear him up there. The god of this universe is on a submarine called Hootsforce probably having a beer. He’s not going to come to Angus’ aid.

_One divine intervention per day, I’m afraid,_ says the imaginary voice of the imaginary secretary of God, and Angus laughs to himself. _We ran out of godly acts and miracles for the day, sir, but try again tomorrow. New shipment coming in._

Yeah, well. Judging by the unlucky fate of Ser Proletius, Angus will be done for in a matter of hours. He can’t wait until next day.

It’s unfair. It’s so fucking unfair, that after a thousand years of carrying the legacy (figuratively, in his name, and literally, in his hammer) of Angus McFife the first, the legacy that was nothing more than a noble title and a Sisyphean fight against a sorcerer frozen in ice, the McFife bloodline is to end hours after the fulfilment of said legacy.

Maybe he could say it’s poetic, if Angus knew a thing about poetry. He doesn’t. He just finds it to be a cosmic kick in the balls. _Good job on defeating your multigenerational nemesis, now turn evil or die_ , the universe seems to tell him, and Angus is, frankly, so done with the universe. The universe straight up sucks.

After about ten minutes of crying and cursing out the distant moons visible in the sky, Angus forces himself to think. The necrosis has spread across most of his torso by that time, disappearing underneath his belt and curling up his left arm, and he’s slowly going numb with it, both in body and in soul. He feels the _good_ drain out of him.

He doesn’t want to be evil. Ser Proletius was his friend, and what became of him after his run-in with the knife… maybe it’s better that he died. Proletius himself probably would have asked for death over serving pure evil. So if Angus has friends half as good as a friend he was to Proletius, they will understand. They will know that Angus chose death over living a life of being no more than a puppet filled with shadows of who he once was. They will know him for his bravery and his sacrifice.

Mount Schiehallion happens to be a volcano, in this reality. An active volcano, no less. And the fight just so happened to have occurred right on top of it. Awfully convenient for Angus, almost like fate knew it would come to this. Angus laughs to himself bitterly, trying to picture a cosmic entity throwing a dart blindly and seeing where it lands to decide the next twist of his miserable little life.

Angus thinks that there are probably better ways to die than jumping into the crater of a volcano. But then again, the only weapon at his disposal besides the Knife of Evil is his hammer, and he can’t very well whack himself to death. So Schiehallion it is.

There’s a winding path down the inner side of the crater, or more like another lucky coincidence that the rocks happened to chip and break off just right to create a walkway. Angus lost his upper layers when taking account of his wound, but even half-dressed, he’s already sweating in the sweltering heat.

He remembers that magma is molten stones and metals, a bubble of matter from the depths of the Earth, a slowly boiling mass that’s infinitely older than Angus and will be there centuries after his death as well. It makes him feel insignificant and _light_ , somehow, knowing that his death won’t matter to this volcano. It will accept his body and burn it along with the Knife of Evil, ridding the world of it for eternity. A small, pointless, unnoticed sacrifice, but unmeasurably important in the grand scheme of things.

Angus takes a deep breath to steel himself.

The rot is climbing up his neck, like a dark hand strangling him, and he knows he doesn’t have much time left. He barely feels at this point, his skin hard and dead like a protective shell around his transforming, dying soul. He clings desperately onto his determination, the stubborn force of will to die while he still has an ounce of good in him. He thinks about everything he’s done, the people he’s saved, the people he’s lost and failed, the people who stood beside him and went to battle by his side. He regrets not saying goodbye to Ralathor or the Hootsman, but there’s no time now. He feels the darkness slowly seeping into his vision, and he knows this is it.

With a last breath, he steps forward,

And he falls into nothing.

* * *

Heaven smells an awful lot like the medbay of the DSS Hootsforce, Ralathor’s cologne and the Hootsman’s favourite beer. Heaven is also too bright and too cold. Heaven should furthermore not have Ralathor in it, especially not Ralathor muttering frustrated words in a foreign, ancient-sounding language.

“Am I in hell?” Angus asks the only logical question that comes to mind, blinking rapidly to clear his fuzzy vision.

Ralathor curses loudly and Angus sees him jump from the corner of his eye.

“Hoots!” he yells to somewhere where Angus can’t see, “your idiot is awake!”

Angus is decidedly anti-being called an idiot. He prepares to say as much but then a blonde hurricane attacks him and tackles him into his hospital bed-mattress. Or like. Even deeper into his mattress.

Angus returns the hug with weak, noodle-like arms, trying to make sense of the whole thing.

“What were you thinking?” the Hootsman asks when he finally lets Angus go. Angus stares at him indignantly.

“It’s called a heroic sacrifice,” he says, “why, what did it look like it was?”

“Well,” Ralathor snaps, sounding annoyed, “it looked like an impulsive idiot jumping into a volcano without caring to give his friends a reason or a chance to find an alternate solution.”

“There was no alternate solution!” Angus defends himself, “the Knife of Evil almost got to me! I had to end it before that could have happened! You couldn’t have helped!”

“Angus,” the Hootsman says, “you remember that I’m God, right? I could have healed you.”

“Aren’t you limited to one divine act a day?” Angus asks, half joking, “you already filled your quota with Zargothrax.”

“That’s bullshit,” the Hootsman frowns, “and I could always bend the rules for my friend, you idiot.”

“Besides,” Ralathor interrupts, his voice coiled tight like barbed wire, “I’m a thousand year old sorcerer with a vast knowledge of evil spells, not to mention that I _made_ the Knife of Evil.”

Now. That’s new.

“You _what_ ,” the Hootsman asks, and Angus nods along because yeah. He _what_?

“I made it,” Ralathor repeats, head hanging low.

“It was… a dare, if you please. A competition of making the more powerful weapon. A stupid bet. I didn’t think twice about it at the time and I never knew Zargothrax had it all along. Forgive me, Angus.” 

“That’s a lot of new information to dump on a guy in one day,” Angus chokes out, because fuck, he never even processed Ralathor being old as shit, much less this whole Knife of Evil business.

“I know, and I’m sorry you never knew about any of it. I didn’t want you to know that I knew your ancestors. It would have made you…place unfair expectations on yourself.”

“Damn right it would have,” Angus huffs, “but at least I would have known the truth.”

“I can apologize more if that makes you feel better,” Ralathor says, and once again Angus sees everything clearly in his eyes. Ralathor regrets omitting the truth, of course, but he also seems relieved, almost giddy with it _._ He looks at Angus with such happiness that Angus’ stomach clenches at the sight of it.

“But the fact of the matter is still that I saved your life from a stupid and unnecessary death. So. Let’s call it even?”

“Sure,” Angus mutters, having no idea what he’s agreeing to. Ralathor’s words trigger something in him, and suddenly he’s scrambling out of the white t-shirt someone put on him, looking for a wound, for rotten, dead skin.

“What –”

“I healed you,” Ralathor says, “it wasn’t easy, you barely had any life force left. You better thank your friend for all the energy he let me transfer from him to you.”

“You gave me your life force?” Angus asks incredulously, turning to look to the Hootsman.

“I’m immortal, it hardly mattered,” the Hootsman says with faux-nonchalance. Angus knows his every tell and he can see the weakness and exhaustion of his friend.

“Thank you,” he says, “thank you both.”

“Next time just tell us,” Ralathor grumbles, but then he leans down to hug Angus as well. His ponytail falls into Angus’ face and the shoulder pads of his uniform dig into his chest, but it’s still one of the best hugs Angus has ever received.

“Will do, commander,” he grins when they pull away, and delights in Ralathor’s eye roll.

Everything feels alright for a moment. The Hootsman and Ralathor by his side, Zargothrax defeated and most of humanity left alive, including himself, Angus chalks the day up to be a success. Sometime later he’s going to ask Ralathor about Zargothrax, about their past and Ralathor’s plans with him for the future, but that can wait. For now, he’s content to hear the Hootsman tell him that he needs to work out more because when he pulled him out of the volcano, Angus looked very scrawny and a warrior needs to be strong. He’s content to listen to Ralathor bitch and moan about the rare ingredients he used up to counter the effects of the knife, like it was Angus’ fault that Zargothrax stabbed him.

“You should rest,” Ralathor says at the end of his tirade about a near-extinct subspecies of wolfsbane, “you’ll heal faster if you sleep.”

“Good idea,” Angus says, and almost asks Ralathor if he’s trying to magick him to sleep, stifles a yawn. Ralathor smiles fondly and gestures for the Hootsman to stand, to leave Angus alone.

“Thanks, commander,” Angus murmurs as his eyes are slipping closed. Ralathor smiles fondly, a rare expression gone again in a second when Angus opens his eyes again, a thought having occurred to him.

“Ralathor,” he says, waits until the sorcerer turns to face him, an eyebrow raised in expectation.

“Next time you make an epic weapon; name it something cooler than the fucking Knife of Evil.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for reading! comments and kudos are always welcome, and if you feel like it, hit me up on social media or check out my other works: [ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardinal__sin) | [tumblr](https://cardinalxsin.tumblr.com/) | [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/cardinalxsin/) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/cardinalxsin)


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